Set Fiendfyre To My Heart
by DoYouReallySeeMe
Summary: Sometimes Harry just misses his cupboard. [HP/DM/BZ]


**Title:** Set Fiendfyre To My Heart

 **Summary:** Sometimes Harry just misses his cupboard.

 **Pairings:** Harry/Draco/Blaise

 **Chapters:** 1/?

 **BETA:** This story has not been proof read or edited by a Beta.

 **Warning:** Slash (meaning a male/male relationship). Threesome. Romantic and sexual relationships between underage teenagers. Romantic and sexual relationships between an underaged teenager and an adult. Underage consumption of alcohol. Trigger warning: unhealthy relationships. Trigger warning: mention of a cut. Trigger warning: bruises. Manipulation. Dark elements.

 **Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership over J. K. Rowling's _Harry Potter_ series; I own nothing of the books or any of its syndicated characters; I claim no rights over any original plot points. I do own the following story and have used characters and text from the prementioned books to create the alternative world they live in. I gain no profit from writing this, but reviews are always welcomed.

* * *

Chapter One; Part the First

* * *

… _Lockhart brandishes his wand at the snake, waving it widely as he cast. His words don't sound like the Latin or the Brittonic dialects they were all forced to learn from first to third year, but the spell takes with a final flourish of Lockhart's wand and a bright flash of blue light anyway. There is, however, a loud bang as the spell connects with it's target, and the snake, instead of vanishing – as was the intention, shoots up ten feet into the air and then falls back to the floor with a loud, resounding smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithers straight toward its closest target, it's perceived threat, who happens to be a rather stunned-looking Justin Finch-Fletchley standing in the circled crowd around them. The snake hisses at Justin, raising itself up again, fangs exposed, venom as black ink stringing between upper and lower jaw, poised to strike._

 _Harry isn't sure what convinces him to step in; he's hardly aware he's moved until his legs have already carried him forward (foolishly) and he shouts stupidly at the snake. "Leave him alone!" But miraculously – inexplicably – the snake slumps to the floor, docile as a house cat, its dark eyes now fixated on Harry, waiting. Harry feels the fear drain out of him. He knows the snake wouldn't attack anyone now, though how he knew it, he couldn't have explained. He looks up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful — but certainly not angry and scared. Certainty not expecting to see a sea, a crowd, of mirrored faces. Even Snape looks at him with dark, unhappy eyes and a face paler then usual…_

* * *

There are not a lot of happy memories to be had of his second year; in truth, it was a nightmare. If he were to think seriously on it, Harry might even be stretched to say there were few, too few, happy memories of Hogwarts in general. But. This strange thing of theirs, whatever it was, not quite love and yet not not-love either, it starts in their second year, amidst the swelling darkness and whispers echoing off the cold stone walls.

It almost makes everything else worth it.

According to the professors, that was the year of one of the worst storms Hogwarts had seen hit. The late snowfall bringing with it howling winds and a freeze so cold it had caused faint, spiralling cracks on the outside of the – _many_ – windows. The professors had been seen rushing about the hallways in the following weeks to weave repairs into the wards of Hogwarts as the storm had tapered off, many of the upper-class students following them about as they worked on repairing the damage to stone and glass and slate, asking questions with quill and parchment in hand. Harry has only faint memories of the storm sitting on the horizon beforehand, of dark and murky skies, and of the wind howling with such a force that it almost sounded like a song of Sirens and Cerberus pups. Or Hags and drunken Gargoyles. But he does remember the window closest to his bed, and all the other windows in the Gryffindor dorm, rattling with the shear force of the storm as it raged overhead. He remembers the next morning well too. Of how the snow had turned into a blizzard under the force of the storm, pleating down ice so thick and heavy that it had sealed the great black-iron doors leading to Hogwarts grounds frozen shut.

Sleep evades everyone in the castle that first night of the storm. And with the Hogwarts population " _strongly advised to stay within the castles bounds, as long as the storm leaves the grounds too hazardous to venture out in alone_ " the mood of both student and staff quickly deteriorates in the following days. The castle, as massive as it is, quickly becomes cold and haunting when the idea of being trapped inside starts to settle. There is of course very little piracy at any boarding school, and even Harry is guilty of lying to his friends to escape for a few hours outside with only his own company and a broomstick. Stuck with the same company for days on end can become a dangerous mix of bored, annoyed, and hated. Which is why so many students join different out-of-class groups or make a point to have friends from different houses. Vain attempts to fend from the ever-pressing insanity and droll notoriety of their every-day routine, but successful in most cases. It's one of those unspoken things that everyone's guilty of but no one speaks of. A locked door or empty classroom doesn't give the same feeling of escape, unfortunately.

Harry finds he misses flying most of all, not necessarily of Quidditch itself but the act of actually _flying_. It's a different sort of self imposed isolation up in the sky verses the one the snow has enforced upon them, which feels more like a social experiment to see who will crack first. But for the most of it, Harry finds he isn't ungrateful for the excuse to hide away from the accusing eyes that had taken to following him wherever he dared move – or even breathe – in the castle. He's not ungrateful for the excuse to hide away from the fingers pointed in his direction, or from the whispers spoken about him from behind curled hands either.

Neither is he ungrateful for the excuse to draw the curtains on his bed closed and hide under his duvet for a few more hours, trying to forget that the world even exists for a little while more. _If only Neville would stop screaming and trying to cover his chest when Hermione inevitably storms up the boys staircase to drag Harry down to the common room with an "a least sit with us for a while, Harry"_. He sighs. He knows avoidance wont make any of his problems go away, but it does make it easier, somehow, to deal with it when he's not there in person to hear as they whisper about him. As they share gossip and exaggerate rumours. As they lie.

(Even the Hufflepuff's, which really shouldn't have been as shocking as it was.)

" _He's gone dark, he 'as. Maybe he always was."_

"… _not right in the head, that one. I'm telling 'ya mate."_

" _Deranged. That's what they're calling him. Can't say I disagree, exactly."_

" _Harry Potter: the Heir of Slytherin. Ha! His father would disown him were he alive…Harry bloody Nobody is more like!"_

" _He's a liar."_

" _Don't look him in eye mate, you don't know what 'e'll do."_

Harry sighs again without really knowing why. There's no one around to hear it after all, and no one to take notice of it even if they were within hearing distance. Harry of course excludes Ron and Hermione from this observation for obvious reasons: _answer being it's Ron and Hermione, and that they've put up with enough of his shit that they don't even take notice of his "brooding" anymore_. The three of them have been in a lazy state of half awareness for most of the day, wasting away the hours of what would have been their morning classes – cancelled due to the storm – and warming themselves by the fireplace of the Gryffindor common room. Harry turns to look at his friends, but Hermione is concentrating too hard to pay him any attention and Ron looks like he may be asleep.

The most collectively productive they'd been was Ron and Hermione sitting at opposite sides of a wooden chessboard while Harry drew the flames of the fireplace in patterns with his wand; in other words, they'd not been productive in the slightest. But that's okay. Even if they'd had to bully Hermione into joining them by hiding her transfiguration essay under the guise of "it's good for you to take a break". And, it's peaceful here in Gryffindor tower. A sanctuary of sorts, safe away from the prying eyes of the rest of the school. But even here Harry can feel eyes on him, _they're_ _always watching him_ , and he feels venerable under their scrutiny in a way he hasn't felt familiar with since he'd left the Dursley's that summer. Weary in a way he hadn't thought to prepare himself for until the following summer when he was expected to return.

 _The Dursley's_ Harry thinks with a shudder crawling its way down his spine - slow, like the slow crawl of spider and its many legs down each vertebrae; and suddenly he's falling into half formed thoughts and fears without want or permission to. They're not nice ones, his thoughts that is. He remembers lonely nights locked away in a cupboard too small to fit his growing legs, of hunger, of how the cold didn't numb but desensitized before bringing crashing waves of sharp pain. Of waking up to blue toes and spider bites that left him feeling ill. Of being called freak before becoming the greatest freak of them all – The Boy Who Lived. He thinks of his cousin, of Dudley's second bedroom, where they'd allowed him to co-exist amongst the remnants of his cousin's other broken things, but only after the wizards sent a letter addressed to his cupboard and the fear those green-inked words inducted in his aunt and uncle. But Harry supposes that's all he is, to his mother's sister and her family, to the muggles, to the wizards: broken – just a thing to be used when needed and then discarded until it was useful again.

He thinks of Harry Hunting, of bruised knuckles and skinned knees and missed meals, of Piers Polkiss pressing kisses to his bloodied lips when no one could see, saying he was so pretty like that – on his knees in the dirt like he belonged there. He thinks of the iron bars on Dudley's second bedroom and of the cat-flap on the bolted door that squeaked as his aunt pushed a tray in – _a sandwich with hard, tough-to-bite-into bread and half a glass of water_ – twice a day. It's not the freshest and it's definitely not a full meal but he'll be too hungry by then to care if it's rotten or uncooked. He thinks of the shame and the burning hate he feels whenever he can't hold onto himself for the one toilet break a day his uncle allows him. He thinks of the icy water his aunt forces him under when she decides he smells bad enough for a shower now. He thinks with horror, hate, (anger), that maybe the madness of those four walls will finally drive him insane, and maybe none of it would matter by summers end because he'll be in a padded cell somewhere far away.

He doesn't think he'll survive another summer there, but knows he'll have too.

The thought of his relatives is an ugly one and it makes him feel ugly too, like he's cut himself on a sharp knife and the wound just won't heal. And the wound is an old one, spanning from the night he was left on his relatives doorstep – like garbage, his uncle loves to tell him – to now. It should have been healed over and gone with nothing but a scar to remember it by, but it feels raw still. _Rotten_. As if it were rotting away inside of him and somehow it still hurts like it's fresh, stinging as it throbs with each beat of his heart. And it stays like that; a sharp wound in his mind that won't stop hurting, a bright beacon he doesn't want to see but can't help noticing, a _not-good-don't-go-there_ place. A _leave-me-alone_ place. A place where he knows _please_ won't work. (A place that looks strangely like his cupboard). It _hurts_ to think of it. So he tries not to instead. It doesn't work well, if at all. And Harry refuses to admit that there may be some part of him, a small, dark place in his chest where it feels good to imagine his relatives suffering in his place.

( _He imagines his cousin crying out in pain, pleading and begging for it to stop. He imagines his aunt twisting and writhing away from the outstretched hands clawing for her face and neck, imagines his uncle's face turning purple as he struggles to breathe – that one particular vein on his left temple bursting with the pressure.)_

He wants to feel bad for thinking it, but he can't seem to gather the energy or the emotion to. The thought _–_ _thoughts_ _–_ does very little for him. It doesn't scare him, though perhaps it should, and it doesn't make him flinch, because as horrible as he knows it is, that _he_ must be, Harry doesn't think he would mourn the passing of his aunt and her family should it ever come to pass. He wouldn't regret it. That must make him horrible, he thinks, to not feel _anything_ at such thoughts.

And it's only with that that thought in mind that he hold his knees tighter to his chest and shivers. It's not from the cold, even though the storm is still howling angrily outside. He doesn't know what he feels. (Detached, maybe? Hate, for not being strong enough to protect himself. Sad? Or pity, for himself. For others. Hate, at the world. Hate. _Hate_.) So instead he just holds himself tighter; as if, if he holds on just tight enough he might be able to put the pieces of himself back together. It doesn't work of course, and he sits there in silence for a while longer remembering when he used to fall asleep sitting just like this, after his legs had become too long to stretch out in the small space of his cupboard and when his neck had ached from being bent over and twisted all night. It's a familiar position now, a comfort almost, and he can stay like this for hours without his muscles cramping if he needs – or wants – to. He snorts into his crossed arms, muffling the sound as he tucks his arms closer against his body.

He wonders what people would say if they knew what his head was like, like a dark cupboard too small for a child to sit in, with even darker secrets skittering about like spiders in the shadows. Harry feels his face tighten. They would do nothing good, the muggles wouldn't care and the wizards were so quick to place blame and point fingers and declare "evil" intent where there is none. Maybe it's better that they don't know, Harry thinks. And faintly he finds himself wondering if Justin Flinch-Fletchley knows he blames him for turning Hogwarts into another hellish domain out of what was supposed to be, but never quite was, a home.

Hogwarts was supposed to safe. Full of magic and acceptance for his intelligence and odd quirks that the muggles never allowed him to express without punishment. But it wasn't. And Harry can't help but blame the boy he tried to defend, from a conjured snaked of all things, – _and how was he supposed to know he was speaking another language anyway, when it sounded like English to his ears?_ – for not defending himself and saving Harry from the pain of this early discovery. Wizards were weak willed and easily manipulated by popular option it seemed, regardless of the logic and facts they were presented with, or even their own eyes.

Idiots.

And maybe it wasn't fair of him to heap the blame of all of this on Justin. But. Wasn't that what everyone else was doing to him? As if the title of being The Boy Who Lived, a title that they'd forced on him, gave them any right to treat him as less than human.

"Oh honestly Harry." Hermione said, startling him back to awareness. Harry, honestly happy for the distraction from his thoughts, turns his full attention to his two friends. Hermione is breathing through her nose, heavy huffs of annoyance as she pushes her wild hair away from her face with angry gestures, glaring down at the chessboard the entire time she speaks. There's an odd but strangely cute twitch of her nose that shows how annoyed she really is. And Ron is siting across from her, closer of the two to where Harry's sitting but in contrast to Hermione's rather stiff posture and crossed ankles Ron sits slouched with bent legs looking far too long for the rest of his body. His trousers are too short for him now, though they had fitted fine at the beginning of term, and Harry can clearly see his mix-matched socks of red and grey. Harry snorts. Even without looking at the board Harry can tell who the game is favouring: there's a familiar sort of grin on Ron's face that is full of self-satisfaction and, faintly, arrogance. Hermione gives another sound that could almost be a sigh but is more of a groan as Ron makes his next move.

"Is this about Justin again?" Hermione asks. Harry wonders if his face is really that transparent but it must be, or maybe it's his raised eyebrows that give him away, because Hermione nods to herself with a roll of her eyes as she turns back to the chess board. "Go and find him if it's bothering you. You'll feel better afterward." She said. And the three of them watch as Ron's bishop (black) wrestles Hermione's knight (white) off his horse and then proceeds to drag the animated piece off the board before returning to its overthrown place. It wiggles in place as if it were happy and Hermione breathes through her nose again, heavily. Harry wonders if he and Ron should be worried.

"Rook to G4."

"Castle to G4."

"Ha! Pawn to F6 and Check _mate_." Ron said, grinning as pieces of Hermione's king go flying as his (black) pawn's animated piece draws its duo swords and beheads Hermione's (white) king. The chess set is a gift from professor McGonagall, fashioned after the chess board trial they'd faced last year when trying to protect the Philosopher's Stone, and Ron is obviously in love with it. It's made out of wood and marble, but transfiguration is a marvellous thing. It's beautiful.

Hermione crosses her arms with a huff and mutters under her breath about the barbaric nature of wizarding culture. _The makes the score 7 – 2 to Ron_. Harry likes to imagine she's thinking of a long string of curses that would make Ron's twin brothers blush; the thought alone is enough to make him grin and he very deliberately refuses to take notice of the few students around the common room who flinch as he does. Realistically he knows it's more likely that Hermione is instead working herself up into – _another_ – rant about Ron's poor performance in class compared to his "strategic ability to outmanoeuvre her in a game that he hardly seems to pay attention to". About how much _potential_ he has. That the _both_ of them have. Harry shudders, thinking he should make his escape now while he still has the chance.

"You're not getting any revision done sitting there anyway." Hermione said after a short mope at her loss. And she's right of course, he hasn't turned a page in his Potions textbook since Ron and Hermione's third or fourth game. "You haven't even turned a page in the last two hours." She said, as if confirming Harry's thoughts. "Go." Harry watches his friends as they reset the board and transfigure the animated chess pieces whole again. "You'll feel better, after." Hermione turns to smile at him and Harry feels his lips pulling into something like a smile in response.

Justin Flinch-Fletchley. Harry has been thinking of him recently, and often. He wonders if there's any point in speaking to him or if Hermione is right – which she usually makes a point in being – and he really should try and find him. If he should take the chance to explain to Justin that he'd only been trying to call the snake off from attacking, that he wasn't "egging" it on or whatever else everyone has been saying happened. But would Justin even listen? Would it make a difference? There were so many rumours circling the halls that sometimes even Harry thinks maybe he's the one that's got it wrong.

It's a strange feeling.

"Alright." Harry's voice is quiet even to his own ears. And with Hermione's attention once again engrossed in her chess match against Ron and Ron's lolling head he doubts they hear him anyway, but that's okay. It leaves him free to focus on his own thoughts and doesn't give him the chance to back out. He's up and moving before he realises it, passing little Ginny Weasley on his way to dorms who's busy scribbling away in a dairy.

It's only a quick trip; Harry taking the stairs up to the dorms two at a time, flinging his Potions textbook on his bed so he can open his trunk to find a jumper thick enough to keep him warm against the chill of the storm. The storm had, or so it seemed, cast a death-like freeze upon the castle and Harry is reminded, stupidly, of the muggle fairy tales he'd only ever seen glimpses of on the telly in passing. The jumper he finds is non-descript, grey, and surprisingly soft. Though as with most of Harry's things, excluding his Hogwarts uniform which was bought with his own Gallons, it's second hand from his cousin, so of course it sits far too large on him. It falls off one shoulder and the sleeves fall down pass his knuckles. But he keeps it on anyway, because as with most of the clothes Petunia bought for her darling son it was good quality and likely not cheap. Which is perhaps why she'd rather the nephew she hated wear it second hand as her son ballooned up another three sizes rather then chuck it out with the rubbish or give it away. Harry didn't care what her reasoning was, the jumper was warm and soft and while it was obviously too big maybe in a few years it might even fit him – if he grew into his shoulders at least.

He jogs back down the stairs to the common room, sticking his wand in his back pocket and jumping the last few steps. He raises a hand goodbye to both Ron and Hermione as he passes them on the way out. They're both too immersed in their game to really notice but Hermione makes a noise in his direction and waves with her fingers as he passes and Ron – yawns, oblivious of course.

Harry shakes his head at their behaviour, turning his mind to wondering where Justin might be as he climbs down from the portrait hole. The Weasley twins are entering at the same and they pull faces at him as they pass each other: one of them has a toilet seat around his neck like some sort of trophy and the other has bright green hair at the tips but only at the front, and also on his forehead and nose, as if something had blown up in his face and stained him. Harry decides he doesn't want to know the details but he grins at them anyway. They holler back praises to him as a Dark Lord and mock bow until they're gone from sight. It's at times like this, these small moments wherein he's reminded of the carefree attitude and support of those he would call friends, that he's grateful he convinced – _begged_ – the sorting hat to put him in Gryffindor. It's not until the portrait closes behind him however that Harry realises that this may have been an ill-conceived plan, which, if he were being honest, is always his problem, next to his temper of course, which never fails to get him in trouble.

See. Harry doesn't actually know Justin well. They share a few classes and Hermione is in the same " _Literature Appreciation Club_ " as him, abbreviated to "the LA", which is basically a book club with both muggle and wizard authors, but that's about it. They've shared a few short conversations in classes, mostly small talk as they wait for a professor to arrive, but Harry's never felt awkward around him before and can only assume that Justin hasn't either. He's excluding the reactions to the whole The Boy Who Lived thing that seems to make everyone a little, though mostly temporarily, stupid. _Star struck_ Hermione had called it. But. The only things he knows about the Hufflepuffs from his year are general facts; there are more girls then boys; there are no second years on their house Quidditch team; they came in third for the House Cup last year but still cheered like they won; they don't like to be called 'Puffs. The usual stuff really. But everyone knows about the study session the Hufflepuffs hold in the library each evening.

(If they were ever asked why they choose to study in the library instead of in the comfort of their common room they always answered "so our friends from the other houses can join us too". As if it were the most obvious thing. Hufflepuffs = Loyalty.)

It was one of the commonly known things between the four houses – that the Hufflepuffs will be in the library each night after dinner, studying – alongside the other house "secrets" that were also well known. Like Gryffindors throwing the best parties, held to the fact that they were the house that had best explored and discovered the secrets of Hogwarts. They also had the highest detention rate out of the four houses, something Fred and George Weasley were eager to help along. Or that the Slytherins had a network of blackmail, on students and professors alike. Or that the Ravenclaws were the only house to successfully smuggle in banned substances past Hogwarts wards _and_ Flich – usually weed, alcohol, and cigarettes. But that was of more interest to the older years.

The study sessions held by the Hufflepuffs however were a daily thing, and it's not unusual to find a few blue-and-sliver and green-and-silver ties sitting amongst the yellow. Sometimes there's even a few red-and-gold ties in there too. And it's nice; there's usually a scattering of different years spread out over the library tables and it just seems nice. Though Harry is still unsure how they get away with carrying on a conversation without Madam Pince intervening, whenever he and Ron try to say more then two words they're being shushed or hurried along to leave the library as quickly and _quietly_ as possible. It's a pure hunch on Harry's part that there will be any Hufflepuffs from his year – or anyone at all actually – studying now, using their sudden free time to catch up on assignments and homework like most other people seemed to be doing. But they seemed like a studious lot and Harry has very little else to go on, so mentally he crosses his fingers and continues on, walking past corridors of empty classrooms and leaving their eerie silence behind.

The walk from the seventh floor, where Gryffindor tower is concealed behind the painting of the Fat Lady, to the library on the first floor is a long one, and by the time Harry gets there the library is a welcoming sight. He lucks out too, spotting a group of Hufflepuff's from his year, only a few of which he recognises on sight. They're sitting in a far off corner and huddled around one of the larger tables the library has to offer. It's obviously a study session, and Harry thinks to himself if the Gryffindors of their year weren't so lazy Hermione would have already attempted to enforce something similar. Surely this would be her idea of heaven. There are books opened and propped up against bags and bronze candleholders. Each Hufflepuff looking as if they were studying something different to their neighbour, but with notes spread out between them for everyone to share. There's also a large pile of books piled in small stacks in the middle of the table, which Harry guesses is either study material or how-to manuals for insane studiers. Small glass inkpots float above the table in a slow-spinning cluster. They make a _tink_ sound every time they hit one another. But despite all of the obvious effort they'd put into setting up their work area, which looked both functional and practical, set up with an ease of something done many times before, they weren't actually doing any work at all.

Not one of them had a quill in their hand, excluding one girl who was using hers as a hairpin, and most of them didn't even have a parchment out in front of them. One boy had a book open in front of him that was upside down. It was so decidedly odd that Harry doesn't realise he's slowed his approach until he's hesitating in stepping out of the shadows of the bookcase and revealing himself. The bookshelves of the library are ornate, hand carved from dark woods and they seem to go on forever; so much so that they almost touch the tall, arching stone structure of the library's carved ceiling. Harry feels safe enough in their shadow to edge a little closer to group but he's careful to walk with soft footfalls regardless. He's had enough experience of exploring Hogwarts after curfew and evading capture, from prefects and professors and Flich's cat Mrs Norris, that he's secure enough in his ability.

There's nothing in particular about the group of Hufflepuffs that draws his eye, other then their strange behaviour and the Hufflepuff crest on their robes, but he listens in on them for a moment anyway. There's a stout boy with fawn coloured hair that looks vaguely familiar, and it's him who's leading the conversation. The others look at him as he speaks but don't offer much in the way of their own opinions, and it's so very different from the rambunctious nature of Gryffindors, all with something to say and someone to speak over if they want to be heard, that it's strange to watch. It doesn't look like Justin is amongst them, and Harry thinks to himself that he'll just have to brave the awkwardness of the situation and ask the group for their help. However, as the stout boy opens his mouth again Harry thinks it was probably smart of him to wait before revealing himself after all.

"I told Justin to stay up in our dormitory." The boy said. His eyes are unkind as he looks at one of the girls sitting at the table with him. She looks shy, or embarrassed, blushing horribly under his attention. A little thing with mousey coloured hair pulled into low pigtails and a small face – smaller then even little Ginny Weasley. The boy watches her for a while, making a point of drawing the conversation to a pause as he does so everyone is aware of it, and then he turns his face away from her to continue speaking as if she weren't there. Harry is familiar enough with that sort of silent dismal from his aunt and uncle that he doesn't even have to look for the hurt in her eyes to know it's there; it's in the tightening of her small fists and the way she bites her bottom lip so it doesn't shake. "I mean, if Potter's marked him down as his next victim it'd be best if he keeps a low profile for a while." The boy said, but Harry hardly hears it. The world stops, just for a moment, and beneath the cage of his ribs his heart gives a funny, pained little beat. It was stupid to be so shocked, so hurt. But he is.

That's not to say he hadn't known what the whispers were about, what people were saying about him. Of course he did. Only the Heir of Slytherin could possibly be a Parseltongue, they said. It has to be him, they said. Salazar Slytherin lived over a thousand years ago, they said, who's to say a descendant of his didn't marry into the Potter line, they said. But it was something quite different to actually hear the words for himself. It was even worse to hear that someone was so terrified – _of him!_ – that he was hiding away in his dorm. Terrified to leave should he accidently run into him somewhere in this huge castle.

And it was that that hurt worse then anything, but Harry wouldn't let anyone else know that.

"Of course, Justin's been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let it slip to Potter that he's a muggleborn. I mean. Justin actually _told_ him he'd been down for Eton." The boy shook his head. "That's just not the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin's heir on the loose."

"But. I mean. You definitely think it's Potter then, Ernie?" The same girl from earlier said, though her friend with the quill in her hair elbowed her in the side with a look that definitely told her to shut up.

"Hannah." The stout boy, apparently named Ernie, said. He looked at her with eyes that were still unkind, but he hid it behind a well-placed smile. Harry had met many bullies in his life, Dudley in particular seemed to have developed a talent in bringing out the nastier traits in people, but he'd always thought the worst sort were the ones that pretended to be your friend first. "Potter's a Parselmouth." Ernie said. "Everyone knows that's the mark of a dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? Of course you haven't. Because there isn't one." He said. "They called Slytherin himself serpent-tongue." That was a hardly a sound theory, Harry thought. It was a different age, serpent-tongue could have meant something completely different back then. Like silver-tonged. Suave. Eloquent. A snake. None of which sounded any better really.

Hannah, the small, shy girl, was pulling at the end of her pigtails, slumped in her seat with an unhappy look on her face. She didn't say anything though, though she did glance to and from all of the faces around her, and Harry found himself almost wishing she would. She at least seemed a good sort – not one to blindly follow everyone else's opinion. (Wizards in general however, Harry was finding himself liking less and less.)

"Parseltongue is the Slytherin line's most famous legacy, everyone knows that. And you know how purebloods are with guarding family secrets. They'd kill any bastard offspring to keep it in the family if they needed to." Ernie said, as blasé as you like. As if he were simply stating the colour of the sky was, indeed, blue. "And Slytherin was a dark line at that. He probably bound it to his Heirs through archaic magic. Blood rites or some sort." Ernie said. "And Potter could easily be an Heir. It's the only explanation for why he's able to talk to snakes, Hannah." Ernie was looking mighty proud of himself by the end of his "grand" speech, grinning like he'd just won the House Cup singlehanded. Harry thought he might actually hate him, just a little. " _Ernie the Git"_ was starting to sound like a good nickname.

"Ernie…" Hannah said, shaking her head a little and refusing to look at him. She didn't sound convinced. Ernie sighed.

"Do you remember what was written on the wall?" Ernie asked, before parroting it off in a terrible impression of a ghoul: " _Enemies of the Heir, Beware_." It caused a few giggles around the table and Ernie huffed at them in turn. "But look at the facts. Potter has some sort of run in with Filch and the next thing we know, Filch's cat has been attacked." He said. "And that little first year, Creevey. He was annoying Potter during the Quidditch match last week, taking pictures of him lying in the mud and following him around in the halls. Who knows what he did to annoy Potter in their common room? But, next thing we know, Creevy's been attacked too."

"But he's always seemed so nice." Hannah said, still pulling at the ends of her pigtails. "And, well. He's always helping the first years when they get lost in halls. And he may not have liked that Creevy boy but he was never nasty to him. He's never been nasty to anyone, has he?" She said, looking up from her lap with skittish eyes. "Neville said he's a good person, and that he always helps him with his defence homework." She said. "He can't be behind the attacks! His best friend is muggleborn. His mother was muggleborn too. And he never actually goes looking for trouble. And he saved the school last year from Professor Quirrell. And." Hannah takes a deep breath, her first in a while, and Harry thinks to himself that she could probably give Hermione a run for her money with how fast she rambles. "He's the one that made You-Know-Who disappear. So he can't be bad." Ernie snorted, and as much as Harry hated to admit it he agreed with the sentiment. One person doing one good thing doesn't automatically make them a good person. "He's not a bad person." Hannah said.

Ernie the Git smiles, slow and quiet, before answering. "No one actually knows how he survived that night though, do they?" He said. "He was only a baby when the attack happened, and with both parents dead there was no way to find out for sure. So, no one actually _knows_ what happened."

"Oh come on." One of the boys said, rolling his eyes. "You said it yourself, he was just a kid." Ernie's lips curl into something like a sneer. He obviously doesn't like the idea of his "friends" not agreeing with his way of thinking, but he carefully puts his smile back in place and continues in his arguments.

"Fact is, Potter should be dead. He should have been killed the instant the killing curse was aimed at him, but he's not. You have to ask yourself why. Why would a spell that has never failed in its intention before fail now – especially when it was cast from the wand of You-Know-Who. It doesn't make sense." Ernie shifted in his seat, rolling his own wand across the table top as he spoke. "Surely, only a really powerful dark wizard could have survived a curse like that. So maybe that's the real reason You-Know-Who wanted him dead, because he didn't want another Dark Lord competing with him." Harry blinked in shock. "And who's to say everything we know about him so far isn't a lie. Getting sorted into Gryffindor, friends with muggleborns and bloodtraitors, a Quidditch prodigy. It sounds exactly like you'd expect. Like everyone wanted." Ernie said, his face twisting horribly with a sneer as he watched his wand roll back on forth on the table – he seemed completely lost to his own thoughts now, unaware of his friends uneasy looks.

"He pretends like he's average, scoring in the top half percentage of our year throughout the school year, but it's a lie. He was in the top ten list of students when exam results were owled home. He's one of the first to get a spell right every time in class. And I've never seen him raise a hand to ask a question or need help with anything – even potions. It's all an act. Who's to say he's not just biding his time for the right moment to _strike_." Ernie's eyes flickered up to look at his group friends, all of whom looked troubled by now, and Harry watched as Ernie visibly pulled himself together and forced a smile. "I mean, you have to wonder what else he's hiding." He said. But Harry, having had heard quite enough of Ernie the Git's stupidity for one day, decides to step out from the shadows before their conversation can take an even darker turn than it already had.

He's never seen a group of people pale so fast. Even uncle Vernon hadn't paled that fast under his moustache when Dobby the house-elf and the cake incident happened – over Mrs Masons' head at that, the wife of a big partner at Vernon's work – over the summer. "Hi." Harry said, making sure to smile at Hannah who gives him a tiny, shy smile in return while still managing to look guilty. "Sorry to interrupt, but do you know where I might find Justin Flinch-Fletchley?" He asks. "He's a friend of yours right?" The group look uneasily at each other, no one willing to refuse him but no one looking especially like they wanted to be the one to answer him. Harry leans his shoulder against the bookcase behind him and waits.

Of course, it's Ernie the Git that answers. He raises his head up and juts his chin out stubbornly. "What do you want with him?"

Harry raises his eyebrows very deliberately and tries to keep his temper in check. "Do you usually demand a reason from everyone that asks you for help?" He asks. Hufflepuffs are loyal after all; the worst insult would be to their honour. Ernie flushes a pale, blotted pink and Harry tries not to smile. "I just want to talk, actually. I would say it's personal but everyone was either at the Dueling Club or has heard about it from someone else." He said. "No one seems to really care about what actually happened, though I suppose it is far more interesting to hear about the fifty foot snake with three heads that I apparently used to terrorize everyone there with." A few of the girls titter at that, one or two of the boys grinning behind their hands. "Surprisingly, I really do just want to talk. Hermione said I was moping and to talk to Justin if I didn't want him listening to everyone else instead. I figured it was worth a shot."

Ernie's jaw works and Harry wonders, not for the first time, just what is going on in that boys head. He also wonders, somewhat more quietly, if there are many other people that share Ernie's questions and doubts about him. It's a sobering thought. "We were all there." Ernie said, dark eyes watching him through narrowed slits. "We saw what happened."

"Oh. You speak Parseltongue?"

"Don't be stupid Potter." Ernie said, instantly looking like he regretted it. The Hufflepuffs around him shift uncomfortably, some of them stifling gasps, and Ernie looks around shocked, as if he'd forgotten they were even there. When their eyes meet again Harry smiles, just a little.

"In other words, you haven't a clue what I said. Which doesn't actually help me since it doesn't prove or disprove what I've been trying to say from the beginning. Everyone's been too busy _gossiping_ about how I'm an evil, rising Dark Lord who's stupid enough to try and attack someone with no less then two professors and at least sixty witness." He snorts, rolling his eyes. "You can ask Justin because I know no one will believe me, but we don't know each other. We're not friends. And as far as I know we're not enemies." He said. "I didn't even know his last name until all of this happened. But I promise, he's certainty not worth getting into trouble with the Ministry over."

"Like I said." Ernie said through gritted teeth. "We were all there. We saw what happened."

"Well seeing as you were there, you would have seen the snake back off after I spoke to it."

"All I saw." Ernie said. "Was you speaking _Parseltongue_ _._ And chasing the snake _towards_ Justin." Right, Harry thinks, because obviously Parseltongue is an omission of guilt.

"I didn't chase it at him." Harry said on sigh. And he feels lost suddenly, somewhere between being bored with this entire conversation and pissed off at the world. "It didn't even touch him." He said, but he knows that they're not really listening to a word he's saying. He wants to hate them for it but he can't seem to summon the energy: he feels drained, and so beyond tired that he doesn't even remember what a good nights sleep feels like.

"It was a very near miss." Ernie sniffed. "And encase you're getting any ideas," he said, suddenly looking very anxious – as if he's just realised he's pissed off a potential threat – he adds hastily, "I might as well tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations. My blood is as pure as anyone other Purebloods, even if my family isn't as old as some. So, before you try–"

"I don't care." Harry said. "I don't give a fuck what sort of blood you've got." He said, knowing had Hermione been there she would have boxed his ears if she'd heard him. No doubt she would have been horrified. The Hufflepuffs too look aghast; horrified or amazed or somewhere in the middle. And Harry knows any leeway he might have been making with their opinion of him was shot to hell now. "What do I care if you're pureblood or not?" Harry asked, his shoulder jerking in a half shrug. "Why would I want to attack the muggleborns? I'm not pure. I'm a halfblood and my mom was muggleborn. I was brought up in the muggle world. I might as well be muggleborn." It was ironic, Harry thought, that the Hufflepuffs looked more convinced at his being a Dark Lord in-training then the possibility of him being muggleborn. Harry sighed.

"I've heard you hate those muggles you live with." Ernie said after a long, awkward, pause. Something in Harry snaps at the mention of his relatives, _the Dursley's_ , and he feels his eyes burn. If he could kill with a look Ernie would surely lay dead at his feet.

The realisation that they weren't going to help him find Justin, that they didn't want him to, that they feared for their friend if he did – still, even after everything he'd said – was a slow one. Far slower then it should have been. And Harry finds himself snorting again, rubbing at his nose and trying to cover the instinct to bare his teeth at them with a smile. "You're an idiot." He told them, or more precisely, told Ernie. "It's not possible to live with the Dursley's and not hate them." He said through clenched teeth. "I'd like to see you try it." He could have told them what sort of muggles the Dursley's really were. The very worst sort, his mind whispers. He could have told them was it was really like behind the pristine exterior of number four Privet Drive. He could have told them any number of the untold horrors of his childhood. But. He doesn't want anyone to know.

He just, he doesn't want anyone to know.

 _Can't_.

Harry tightens his jaw and squares his shoulders; he won't let them seem him falter. Won't give them more reason to question him. "You're all fools." He whispers, and faintly he wonders if it's even in English. But there's no point in saying, he thinks quietly. Not when they've already made their minds up about him. Not when it'll just be more of the same.

His hands are shaking, even when he tightens them into fists in an attempt to get them to stop, and he moves to hide them in the pockets of his cousin's jumper instead. But despite it all, he doesn't want to be angry. He doesn't think he has the energy to feel it anymore. So he leaves. He doesn't bother saying goodbye, doesn't bother trying to explain, but instead just turns on his heel, sharp, and walks away. He doesn't bother looking back either. He is, in truth, rather annoyed at them. At the school. (At the world.) For being so _weak_. For being so foolish. Harry wants nothing to do with them – _with anyone_ – for a while.

He just wants to be alone.

Madam Pince, who was polishing the cover of a large spell book behind the desked reception of the library, gives him a look as he passes her on his way out – but he doesn't want anyone's pity. Pity only makes the anger in his veins burn hotter. It makes his temples throb louder and his heart clench. The realisation that wizards really are weak-willed creatures was beyond disappointing, as if their ability to cannel magic lessened their ability to do anything else. (Like independent thought.) But he ignores that for now, walking on in the hopes of finding somewhere private where he can be alone for a while. He'll find Justin on his own, he thinks, but not now. Later, when the anger isn't pressing against his chest like a wild animal. Maybe then he'll try again.

He opens a dozen classroom doors, all seemingly abandoned, only to find himself at wand point with the embarrassed squeals of girls hurting his ears. It's mortifying, and it keeps happening – again and again. There's a mix of couples: two girls, kissing with cold hands under her girlfriends jumper, who giggle when they see him and ask him nicely if he'd mind closing the door for them; a boy going down on his girl, both too out of it to notice the door has opened; two boys who cuss and fall over themselves in their hurry to pull their trousers up. Harry leaves that room with the metal clinging of belt buckles echoing in his ears and a strange tightness to his chest. A few times he doesn't find anyone but hears them through the walls and, no. Apparently, everyone was _not_ using their cancelled classes to catch up with assignments after all.

He walks on.

Maybe it's stubbornness, and maybe he's a little grossed out too, but Harry refuses to stay anywhere near such…such _adventurous_ couples – especially when he knows what they're doing. He keeps walking until he finds somewhere he likes the look of. Of course, pretty soon he's lost. But he figures if he's lost then anyone else would likely be lost too. This part of the castle looks disused and dirty, and the dust on the floor is hardly disturbed which means few if any students or professors have been through these particular hallways recently. They're all good signs that he'll be left alone. Hopefully, he thinks, he'll stay lost long enough to find somewhere quiet where he can finally allow himself to think.

So of course, the moment Harry thinks it's safe to start relaxing a hand reaches out – _from nowhere at that_ – to grab at the loose material at the front of his jumper and pull. Harry is too surprised to struggle, too surprised to even realise how wrong he was. The corridor is so dark that he hadn't even realised there was a door leading to anywhere for him to find. And as he's being pulled into a classroom off to the side of a hallway he doesn't recognised he admits to himself that he still has a lot of Hogwarts left to explore.

" _Potter_." Draco Malfoy said, in his usual, infuriating drawl.

Of course, Harry thinks, it had to be him. And as if it's not bad enough that it _is_ him, it gets worse when, in the next second, he's pushing Harry up against the nearest wall and kicking the door closed behind them with his foot. He doesn't look away from Harry for a single moment as he does this. Which is why, Harry tells himself, he can see each shift and change of Draco's face, no matter how small. Like the quiver of his bottom lip, because even though he's wearing a familiar smirk there's something unsteady about it today. And Harry doesn't know if he likes it.

"Malfoy." He returns in tone, mostly because he knows it'll annoy him.

"You really should watch where you're going." Draco said. And the sky's blue, Harry thinks; an idiot pointing out the obvious. But he lets his head fall back against the wall and groans. He lets Draco laugh at him. He feels the hot exhales of laughter against his bared neck and does nothing. He lets Draco think he's docile and soft in his arms but all the while he's moving his hands, pulling up the too-long sleeves of his cousin's jumper and reaching for his wand that he's tucked into his back pocket like a fool. "Potter." But of course it can't be that easy. Of course not. He knows the instant Draco realises what he's doing. There's a sudden brightness to the shine of his grey eyes – like hoarfrost, something in him whispers – that was different from moments ago. And, as Draco places his warm hands, almost too warm, on his chest there's a burning in Harry's lungs that sings like magic. But then Draco's hands move. They circle down to his ribs to find his hands at his sides, and he takes hold of each wrist with soft fingers that tighten, painful, with a sudden sharp bite of nail. Draco smiles. And it's such a little thing, private, like they're sharing a secret.

"Holy shit that _hurts_." Harry said. And it does hurt, a lot. So much so that he's wincing in pain. And he's so sure that he's going to bruise, in perfectly formed cuffs in purple to match each of Draco's hands on his wrists, that he doesn't even realise his body is moving to try and lessen the hurt. He ends up with his chest press up against Draco's and his hips arched at a weird angle, but when he tries to right himself Draco follows, pressing him tighter into the wall to trap him in place.

And, if Draco's hands had felt warm on his chest then they felt like fire against his skin. It's uncomfortable. And Harry pauses when he realises that this is the first time they've touched. For all of their fights and animosity towards each other Harry and Draco have never actually come to physical blows or contact until this very moment. Excluding the barging techniques used between two Seekers on the Quidditch pitch. And for Harry, who dislikes touch or people touching him without warning or permission, he stiffens instantly.

"The only thing you should be paying attention to," Draco said, smile still perfectly in place, "is me." Harry hates him. If there's one thing he's sure of it's that. " _Much_ better." He whispers as Harry's eyes narrow on him, and there's nothing Harry wants more in that moment than to punch him. To make him hurt in some small, insignificant way. To leave a mark on him. To get those eyes, _always watching him_ , off him. But his hands are still being restrained. His fists clench, but it's useless trying to break free – Draco has him held tight.

"Right, well. You win. Games up." Harry said, and then, unable to help himself, he adds: "five points to Slytherin!" Draco snorts, amused despite himself it seems, but there's another noise, one that sounds almost like a chuckle, that startles him. And suddenly Harry realises they're not alone, that his humiliation is being witnessed by someone _else_ other than Draco.

That thought is, well. It's one thing for _Draco_ to see him like this, but for someone else?

Harry eyes – green, not the same emerald as his mothers, but pale, like glass – flicker around the room in search of the source. Harry can't see all that well in the darkness of the room but he sees well enough; the classroom looks mostly deserted, filthy but empty, with broken things littering the floor and desks pushed up against one wall; there's a stack of rickety chairs covered in thick layers of dust off to one side and childish drawings in chalk on the blackboard. But there's very little else to see. There are, Harry thinks, only so many places to hide in a room this size, it isn't that big after all, but he doesn't find anyone at first. He's almost convinced himself that he'd imagined the sound before his eyes – _finally!_ – make out the shape of a person. It's another boy their age in Slytherin robes, sitting on the widow ledge of the only window in the room. He's half hidden in shadow and it's almost _too_ easy to miss him. There must be magic involved, Harry thinks. But he's tall, with dark skin and brown, slanted eyes. Attractive in the way most purebloods seemed to be, or breed to be, with high cheekbones and an upturned nose, and lips that fell into a natural bow.

He has one leg up on the ledge, his left shoulder to the window, and his tie is loose but not undone. His has ink stains under his nails and smudges on his neck and temple where he must have scratched at his skin or ran his fingers through his dark hair. He's pretty, Harry thinks, but his face isn't familiar. He, whoever _he_ is, looks bored. As if it was completely normal to see two students that were well known to hate each other pressed up against a wall without a wand in sight. But, there was a distant look of interest in his eyes that caught Harry's attention. And it was that look that completed belied everything else about him: all of the carefully posed neutrality that he'd wrapped around himself like a blanket and the faux clam he tried to carry himself with. Maybe in a few years time he will have perfected the act, and Harry has no doubt he'll be sinful and dark hidden behind an unassuming facade, but right now he was just a boy who's voice hadn't settled into its deep tone yet. And while he doesn't look threatening, Harry has learnt enough of wizards and their tricks to learn that appearances meant very little.

He keeps the boy in mind, but says nothing for now as he turns back to Draco who is watching him with that strange smile still in place. "Is this the part where you hex me? Or does the threatening happen first?" Harry said.

"Potter, do keep up." Draco said, with a quiet snort and a roll of his eyes. "If we'd wanted to curse you you'd be in the hospital wing already." Oh, so he was acknowledging the other boy's presence then, Harry thought. Which meant Harry was supposed to see him. How – how odd. But, Harry thought, Slytherin games rarely made any sense until you were ten foot under.

"I can count on one hand how many times you've landed me in the hospital wing, Malfoy." Harry said. "Twice." Which was true. Despite all of the times their words had fallen into curses and hexes aimed at each other, they rarely hurt the other enough to warrant the "tender loving care" of Madam Pomfrey. Even if they did, Harry thought with a grin, it was unlikely either of them would go to the matron of Hogwarts of their own free will. "Most of the time the shit you pull is just annoying." He said. And as the two boy's laugh – probably at him rather then with him, Harry thinks, it's well known how often he ends up in the hospital wing after all – Harry allows himself to relax, if only a little. "Though, why you expect that I'll believe you won't curse me just because you _say_ you won't–"

"A Malfoy's word is his honour–"

"Bullshit." Harry said. Faintly, he thinks that if Hermione ever finds out how much he had been cursing today his ears would probably say red for a month. "You're taking that whole "Gryffindor idiocy" thing too literally. We're not actually stupid." Draco raises a single eyebrow at him and his cheeks round with a smile. It was a look that dared him to continue. "Shut up. You know I'm right." Harry said. "Past experience alone is proof enough: my safety when you're in same room is at a far higher risk than when your not." He said. Which, again, all true. "Though, you could probably say the same." Which was also true. Because the thing is, Harry doesn't dislike Draco. There not friends. They don't fit well enough together to be friends. And they're always clashing in one way or another. But Draco is a constant in his life just like Ron and Hermione are. Harry just, doesn't have a label for it – _for them_ – yet. He sighs. "What are you even doing in here, Draco? This has to be one of the most disused parts of the castle. It's filthy."

Maybe aunt Petunia's obsession with keeping her house clean, fostered off onto him in the form of chores, had rubbed off on him after all these years. The dust in the room was starting to make his skin itch.

"You are an idiot, Potter." Draco said, though it was more of a sigh.

"And you are going to break my wrists if you hold them any tighter." Said hands did actually tighten for a moment before relaxing and the tips of Harry's fingers stung with the sudden flow of blood. "Actually, seeing as you have me at a complete disadvantage anyway would you mind letting me go? I promise not to run. But your standing too close and it's freaking me out." There was a moment where Harry was sure he'd pushed his luck a little too far too quick, but then Draco was sighing against his neck before stepping back. Harry feels his magic stirring his beneath his skin and frowns down at his hands, rubbing at his wrists and trying to cover the discomfort he feels.

"If we'd wanted to hurt you." The other boy said, his lips tugging at one side as if he was trying not to smile – or smirk. "We wouldn't have given you the time to react." He said, watching Harry through dark eyes. "The games Draco plays with you, your little duels, they're fun but in no way malicious." He said. And there's something in his voice that catches Harry's attention, again, and he can't help but believe him. (Stupid.) "Draco has a particular weakness you see." The boy said. "It's a possessiveness, of a sort, non? Comes from his French _patrimoine_ [heritage]. Il est dans son sang, vous voyez." [It's in his blood, you see.]

"Et là, je nous si jouais bien." [And here I though we were playing nice.] Draco said. Scoffed really.

The boy smiled. "Oh but darling, that accent."

Harry sighed. "As fun as the French lesson is." He said, still rubbing at the sore skin of his wrists as red blotches darkened into purple and blues. They would turn into pretty bruises, Harry thought. There would be no missing them. "But was there a reason you dragged me in here?" He asked. "Or, you know, maybe you should consider introductions. If that first question is too hard for you."

"Oh, il est précieux." [Oh, he is precious.]

" _Ha_. Et que feriez-vous s'il sait français?" [ _Ha_. And what would you do if he knows French?]

"Embrasse le." [Kiss him.]

Harry jumps, startled by the sound of Draco's sudden laugh. It's a happy sound, and so strange when he tries to match it to the image of the boy he's known Draco Malfoy to be. But it's nice too, different, but definitely nice. "This is Blaise." Draco said, waving a hand vaguely in the other boy's direction. But now that his eyes have once again returned to watching Harry it doesn't seem likely he'll stop any time soon. "Zabini. His mother is French and an old family friend, and his father was a prince from the Greek isles. He wasn't in line for the throne, but Blaise is the Queen's favourite grandchild. We were playmates, when we were young. Now we are just – mates."

"Ah, but you didn't tell him my favourite colour or my middle name. _Draco_." Blaise tuts, mocking.

"His favourite colour is green and his middle name is –"

"Ah! Enough. Your point is made. _Con_." [Cunt.] Another laugh.

"Blaise." Draco said, still snorting softly even as he straightened himself up. "This is Harry Potter." Now, Harry had been introduced many times. His aunt and uncle were never ones to particularly want to offer any information about their "dirty, criminal of a nephew" and to them he was just _boy_. But since he'd entered the wizarding world his name had been spoken with varying degrees of awe and wonder wherever he went. Harry hated it. But when Draco said his name, it wasn't in awe, but there was a meaning behind it, a weight of importance that didn't come from being The Boy Who Lived, that he didn't understand.

"A pleasure." Blaise said, inclining his head ever so slightly in a nod. And yeah, Harry could see him being a prince.

"Hi." Harry said, because what else were you supposed to do when you're introduced to royalty? Curtsy – or was that only for girls? "What am I doing here?" He asked instead, because his head was starting to hurt at the implications.

"Draco insisted." Blaise said. His dark eyes watching him as if he knew exactly what he was thinking, and for all Harry knew maybe he did – _wizards_ after all – and surely there had to be more to magic then just turning matchsticks into silver sowing needles and rats into drinking goblets. Blaise smiled, and it was such a small thing that Harry couldn't help but stare. Perhaps it should have looked sharp, perhaps his head should have told him there was something dangerous hidden behind that smile, but Harry only saw a soft, quiet understanding when he looked at the other boy. "He's rather adamant we knock some sense into you, you see." He said.

"What?" Harry said. Because surely he'd heard that wrong.

Draco sighed. "You really are an idiot." He said, which was more of a mutter if anything and Harry was sure that he wasn't supposed to have heard him. "But." Draco said, taking a deep breath before speaking again. "Growing up, everyone thought the "great Harry Potter" would have been hidden away somewhere under wards and being taught secret, archaic magics we could only dream of. And then last year, when Dumbledore explained the situation with Professor Quirrell to the school and he said you would be returning to your _aunt and uncle_ we knew that must have been lie. All the purebloods did; even the halfbloods knew." Draco said. "Because James Potter was the last of his line, he had no aunts or uncles to speak of, and your mother was muggleborn so that must have meant you were living with _muggles_."

"We thought, before Hogwarts, that you would have been raised like a pureblood. That you would have been taught our customs and known of – well." In the back of the room Blaise shifts so he has both feet on the floor and leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees. His eyes are intent, with a wild sort of darkness, as he watches them, but Harry keeps his own eyes on Draco and doesn't let anything distract him. Not yet. "We hadn't thought you wouldn't know anything of our world. You should have been taught! Any of the olde families would have been happy to foster you. Not because you're The Boy Who Lived, but because you're the last of your family now. The last the carry on your family name." Draco said, somehow sounding so earnest and sad at the same time. "Each year we lose another family, to death, or war, or they just decide they prefer the muggle way of life and abandon our culture altogether. Because the muggle way is _easier_." He said. "There won't be such a thing as purebloods soon. It's more important then ever, to teach the Heirs about their family history." He whispered. "If you'd been brought up in our world you'd known of family traits and gifts; legacy's. You'd have known of Parseltongue and it's history and you wouldn't fear it now. You wouldn't let everyone else's fear infect you like it has."

"I haven't let anyone "infect" me, Malfoy." Harry said, angry despite himself at the thought of – of being as weak-willed as the rest of the wizarding world.

"I haven't heard of you speaking Parseltongue since the Dueling Club, _Potter_."

"You hadn't heard of me speaking Parseltongue for a year _before_ the Dueling Club either." Harry pointed out and Draco sighed.

"Why wont you speak it?" He asked.

Harry contemplates not answering. After all, he doesn't owe Draco an explanation. Draco, a boy who had for all intents kidnapped him and forced him into his conversation; Draco, who was also the boy that Harry had turned down an offer of friendship from and had been fighting with ever since. I don't owe him anything, Harry thinks. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at both boys. He's strong in his belief that he doesn't owe either of them a reason or explanation for why he might chose to never speak Parseltongue again, but something nags at him until he's sighing and answering anyway. "I don't even realise when I am speaking it." He said, sour. "It sounds like English to me. How am I supposed to know when I'm speaking Parseltongue or English when it all sounds the same?" _How is he supposed to know when he does something else usual if it seems normal to him?_

Blaise snorts, shaking his head softly and breaking Harry and Draco apart from glaring at each other. "You won't learn if you avoid it," he said, "and they'll keep pushing you into a mould of who they think you should be – as their golden boy, their little _Boy Who Lived_ – until you don't even realise it anymore."

"And why do you care?" Harry said. He's angry again, so beyond angry now, and he feels it in burning through his veins and heat pooling in his fingertips as if it were his magic waiting to be called upon. But this time, instead of shying away from it like he always does, he embraces it. Uses it as a defence in the face of the questions he'd refused to ask or answer for himself for too long now. "Why do either of you care."

"We don't." Draco said, but smiled. A lie then, Harry thought. "But you shouldn't let them forget. That your not a little toy to picked up and played with when they want. That you're allowed to be different from what we expected." Draco shrugs then, grinning. "It's more fun that way, anyway."

"You're so odd." Harry thought – or maybe he said it out loud because the next thing he knows is Draco is hitting him on the arm with enough force for it to sting but, hopefully, not to mark. He's already got enough bruises to cover, he thinks. "But seriously." Harry said, rubbing his arm and rolling his shoulder away from a frowning Draco. "This is all great and all. Interesting or whatever. But why do you care?"

"Draco gets awfully upset when he's ignored." Blaise said, as if that answered everything.

"Ignored?" Harry asked, beyond confused now.

"I know what the other students are doing." Draco said on a sigh, his own arms crossing over his chest and a frown twisting his features down. They must look like two stropping teenagers, Harry thinks, mirrored positions and angry faces. He wonders what Blaise thinks of them. "Throwing hexes at you in the hallways. Barging into you between classes. I heard you were tripped down the stairs last week." He said, all very calmly, though there's a shadow in his eyes that had been so very bright moments ago. "You never sit in the Great Hall anymore, and you didn't eat meals there very often to begin with." He said. "At least that Granger girl is good for keeping you feed, I suppose." He scoffed and Harry, unable to help himself, rolls his eyes.

He should have known better than to think Draco wouldn't manage to fit a few insults in somewhere.

"That's not say you haven't impressed people with how you've handled it all. Shielding charms are seen as rather advanced for our age you know." Draco said. "But you don't duel anymore." He said. And there, on Draco Malfoy's face, was a _pout_. "Didn't we have fun?" Draco asks. "Don't you miss it?" And Harry doesn't mean to laugh – in fact he'd really, really rather hold onto his anger; its easier to understand – but he can't quite help himself. These two boys, the Slytherins that they are, are talking circles around him, bending him to their will as easily as if they'd been practicing for a lifetime. And maybe they had. But Harry hasn't a clue of what's up or down anymore and he doesn't know why he's questioning reason where there is none.

"You're not telling me something." Harry said.

"Ah. But we have you at a disadvantage, don't we?" Draco said, and then, in a whisper: "and you did promise not to run."

* * *

Authors Note: and after all that, it's left at a fucking cliffhanger. The cheek of it. But I really should apologize, I keep re-working this fic and changing it, and each time the sections get bigger and bigger and life, as always, kicks you when you're down. I'm sorry for my time away, there was an illness in the family, but (hopefully) I'll see you all soon.

Thank you to Annalane on Ao3 and sabicous on FF-net who helped with the previous version's French translations. I've used Goggle Translate for the French parts in this version, but if there's anyone out there that wants to lend a hand and tell me how horribly I've butchered it this time around feel free to send me the correct translations ( _please and thank you!_ ).

Also, Daradash, thank you for being so lovely.


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